Captain Storyteller
by Rayndrop
Summary: There's something familiar about James Moriarty. John can almost remember him on children's telly, telling stories. But of course that's ridiculous... A Sherlock/Candle Cove crossover.


AN: If you're unfamiliar with the story of Candle Cove, you can read it at ichorfalls com /2009/03/15/candle-cove/2009/03/15/candle-cove/

* * *

"You know," sighs John, leaning against the wall of the lab, staring at the ceiling, "I want to blame Kitty Riley. I want to. But I really can't."

"Moriarty gave her plenty of evidence," agrees Sherlock. He is bouncing a handball rhythmically, frowning into the middle distance.

"Yeah, that," says John. "But I mean… He's also just really convincing. _Really_ convincing. You almost… doubt your sanity when he's looking you in the eye."

The bouncing stops. Sherlock looks up. "Doubt me, you mean."

John shoots an annoyed glance at Sherlock. "No, of course that's not what I meant. How many times do I have to tell you I believe you?" The bouncing of the ball resumes.

"What, then?" Sherlock says, with less interest.

John sighs. "Well, it's just… When he talked about his programme, or whatever it was. I could see it, you know? I could picture him telling stories on kids' telly. Really clearly." He can all but hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, even without looking.

"Yes, John," intones Sherlock, "_that_ makes perfect sense. I can see why anyone would consider Richard Brook beyond reproach with that kind of testimony."

"No, but. I mean, I can see it in my head. I almost believe… I can almost imagine I watched it once as a kid." The bouncing stops again, and John knows exactly the look that Sherlock is giving him without looking, and waves him away impatiently, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. "Shut up," he says. "I know that's ridiculous. I'm just saying. He's got a… a something."

"A something," repeats Sherlock in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Good to know. I'll keep an eye out for somethings, shall I?"

John shakes his head impatiently. John knows what he means, even if Sherlock doesn't get it. There's something about his smile that is doggingly familiar.

It's just the power of Jim Moriarty, he supposes.

* * *

"You were lied to," Harry is insisting on the other end of the phone. "Someday you're going to have to face that. You aren't the first person in the world to be lied to."

"You know nothing about it!" John roars. "I was _there_, remember, Harry? I met him. I met both of them. Sherlock was my best friend and Moriarty strapped a bomb to me! I think I know who to trust!"

"No, John, just listen to me. Brook was an actor! I finally remembered where I knew his face from in the newspaper pictures, he really was an actor, he was a children's show actor!"

"What are you on about?" he growls. "He wasn't an actor! It was a _hoax_. His credentials were _made up._"

"No, they weren't though!" she says in the rising-pitch earnestness that is uniquely Harry. "He was on the telly! When we were kids!"

It takes a second for him to process what she's saying.

"When we were kids?" he parrots. "What, how he looks now? Or, did look, whatever. He can't have been an adult on the telly when we were kids, Harry, he was younger than me. He might have been younger than you, I don't know."

"The Storyteller, right?" she says excitedly, like she's making some sort of undeniable point, like this isn't absurd. "I don't remember much about the show, but he was there. You've got to remember, John, I'm sure you watched it too. There was a boat, I think."

"I have to go, Harry," says John flatly. "I'll call you Saturday if I can."

He hangs up without waiting for her goodbye. The back of his neck is prickling, but he pretends not to notice.

* * *

John spends more time with Mike Stamford nowadays—lunches and nights at the pub—because not everything they have in common has to do with Sherlock, like it is with Greg, and he deals well with John's darker moods. It hurts to talk about Sherlock, but sometimes it hurts more not to. Stamford's good about understanding that.

There's only ever one subject John is usually thinking about these days when he wanders off into his own head, and he's sure his friend knows. But when Stamford swigs from his beer and says "Penny for your thoughts," John says the first thing that comes to mind that's not "I wonder if Mrs. Hudson ever donated Sherlock's lab equipment."

"There was this show Harry was talking about a while back," he says, "that she watched when she was a kid. She says I saw it too. Something about a boat. And I'm pretty sure there were puppets. I have this image in my head of a skeleton puppet… I don't know. Not much to go on, but it's been bugging me. Maybe I'm just going crazy."

They lapse back into silence for a long stretch of moments. John almost thinks they're going to leave it at that before Stamford finally speaks up.

"Would you think I was crazy if I said it rang a bell?"

John takes a pull of his beer. "No," he says. "I'd think you were humoring me."

Stamford laughs. "No, really. I think I know what you're talking about. Some cut-rate local show. Was there a little girl in it? Wore yellow?" His face lights up and he snaps his fingers in recognition. "Pirates! It was about pirates, wasn't it?"

Things are becoming clearer as Stamford speaks, and it makes John a little nervous. Which it shouldn't. If he can figure out the show he and Harry are remembering, he can prove to her that it wasn't… who she thinks.

"Can you think of the name?" he says as casually as possible.

Stamford shakes his head. "Nah, mate. Brain isn't what it used to be. At least you know you're not crazy, though," he grins.

They clink bottles to his sanity, and John smirks but doesn't feel particularly amused.

* * *

He tries some internet searches with the little bit that he and Stamford remembered, but "puppet" "skeleton" "pirates" "girl" isn't a particularly useful string of words and he gives up quickly.

He doesn't bring it up with anybody again until some time later, when he next meets Molly. Lestrade has asked him to come in unofficially a couple of times since… things changed. It's transparently a ploy to keep John busy, but it works so he doesn't mention it. It's good to see Molly, anyway. John has thought about calling her up for coffees once or twice, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't have anything to say once he did, and he's not sure how to ask without sounding lonely. God forbid, of course, he sound lonely.

He likes seeing her in the morgue, though, which sounds strange but it's true. It's familiar, and she seems more at ease here than elsewhere. After he inspects the body Lestrade called about and makes a few notes, they chat for a little while, which really means that Molly chats and he listens. It's nice. He shouldn't have been so worried about having nothing to say over coffee.

"Hey, I have a bit of a funny question," he says when she mentions what she's been watching on telly. Molly nods, eyes bright. "It's weird, but it's about a television show. An obscure kiddie programme. Aired a long time ago, you were probably too young."

"Try me," she says.

"Well, it was about pirates, and it had puppets, and a little girl in yellow, and uh. Maybe some kind of storyteller. And a boat that talked, I think. Harry brought it up, but I don't know—"

"Candle Cove," says Molly suddenly.

"What?"

"Candle Cove," she says again. "The show was Candle Cove." Her eyes are just a little bit wider than normal, and she's nodding intently. "I remember. It was… Jane? Janet? And her pirate friends. The first mate was a puppet and the captain was a person. A human, I mean."

"Janice," says John, realizing he's certain. "Her name was Janice." He cocks his head. "How old were you? You've got a better memory than me, that's for sure."

Molly shrugs widely. "No idea. I've always had a good memory. I'd forgotten about it completely before you described it though."

"You said," says John with an uncertain wrinkle of his forehead. "The captain of the ship wasn't a puppet?"

"I'm surprised you don't remember him!" she chirps. "Captain Storyteller? He told a story every episode. It would teach Janice or the first mate some lesson or another. I think I had a little bit of a crush on him," she adds, smiling sheepishly.

"I sort of remember him now," says John quietly. "I don't remember his face. I think he gave me the shivers."

Molly's eyebrows go up. "Him? I mean, there were some things in that show that were pretty scary, but not Captain Storyteller. He promised to protect you from the Skin-Taker."

"The skeleton!" exclaims John. "The skeleton with the hat." The more he remembered, the more uneasy he was about it. "Molly, can you think what he looked like? Can you remember at all?"

"Yeah, he was a marionette," she says, shuddering. "An awful skeleton marionette in a top hat and a cape." John shakes his head.

"Not the Skin-Taker," he says. "Captain Storyteller."

Her face is blank in consideration for a moment.

"No," she says. "I can't really remember. He had dark hair. And I think... he had nice eyes. Interesting eyes. I don't remember his face, but—"

"Never mind," says John abruptly. "Never mind, forget it."

Molly blinks in surprise. "It's not a big deal. I'll have it in a moment, my memory's just a little… John, are you all right? You've gone kind of pale."

"No. I mean, no, I'm fine." John insists, standing from his stool and moving calmly toward the door. "It's probably something I ate. Never mind about the show. I was trying to figure out who played him, but I've just remembered. Forget it."

"Oh?" she says brightly. "Who was it?"

"Nobody," says John, his voice sounding far away in his ears. "Nobody you'll know." He pulls his arms into his jacket on as he passes from the room. "Forget it. Please just forget it."

* * *

"John, I know you tend to inflate the reach of my governmental position, but—"

"Don't give me that," John says, gripping his phone with white-knuckled fingers. "Not now."

"—but surely you can't think that same reach extends to the realm of obscure children's television."

"I'm just asking you to check it out."

"Look, you've been under a lot of stress—"

"Damn it, Mycroft, don't condescend to me! I am not crazy and you _know_ it!" He pounds a fist against the wall of his flat, his teeth gritted.

"I don't know that," says Mycroft carefully. "Think about what you're telling me, John. Think about this. He was younger than you. And 'was' is the operative term. He's dead. Even with whatever… voodoo unlikelihood I assume you're suggesting, it can hardly make any difference. James Moriarty is dead."

"Yeah, for how long?" John shouts into his phone, then jams the off button and throws it at the couch.

He presses his thumbs into his squeezed-shut, aching eyes. He's not crazy. He knows he's not crazy, he _knows, _he remembers. For now, at least, he's certain. Sherlock would be certain. He wouldn't trust John's ordinary brain, but he would prove it somehow. He would figure it out.

* * *

In the bad end of a bad neighborhood in Switzerland, Sherlock Holmes comes home to a small dirty flat and unwinds his scarf from his neck. He got used to having a home with John awfully easily—easily for Sherlock, anyway—and though it's been months, he's still not used to the quietness and emptiness every time he comes home now.

He has a few indulgences, though, that alleviate the cold boredom of life as a dead man. He checks his watch. Ah, just in time. His favorite television program as a child will be coming on soon. He switches on the tiny telly, sits down and pulls his feet up in the chair, and settles in to watch.

The sound of static is loud in the little room, and Sherlock is unmoving as he stares at the snowy screen.


End file.
